An Assassin's Journal
by Nevar23
Summary: Inspired by the journal entries in the game, this series features Altair's private thoughts on varying subjects.
1. Masyaf 1191

_An Assassin's Journal_

I was asked an interesting question today. The following entry is a copy of the letter containing my reply. I've yet to decide if the letter will be sent but I found the question would not leave my mind.

* * *

_How did you become such a monster?_ My answer seemed to perplex you. Define monster, I replied. For truly it is a malleable concept. One man's hero is another man's monster; one's god another's demon and so on. Of course there are obvious extremes, but for the most part it is a matter of perception and perception is a nebulous thing. There I go, playing with words again. Richard was right about my kind, I suppose.

Yes, I take life. Do I enjoy it? That is a difficult and complex question, so let us examine the monster a little and see what lies beneath.

I defend myself, the Brotherhood and those too weak to oppose the brutality of the power mad. When necessary I kill to prevent some greater atrocity or to right an injustice.

On two occasions, an innocent has fallen by my blade; one because I was impatient and arrogant, the other because I failed to draw the soldiers away from the civilians and a woman collided with the tip of my sword as I fought them. If anything damns me; if I believed damnation possible, it is for those two deaths that I would suffer.

Al Mualim said that we should honor those we kill as teachers, and I have tried to do so. I have learned a great deal about human nature and our capacity for rationalizing our evil deeds. Never was the rationalization more complete as when someone believed they acted in the name of God or to benefit mankind as a whole. Delusions of grandeur often lie beneath altruistic appearances. But I digress.

I was a boy when the Brotherhood took me in. I'll not bore you with the details; suffice it to say I was an orphan. For a long time I was nameless; a mute servant at the beck and call of the Master, the Assassins, even the Novices. I slept in the stables, worked from dawn to dusk and begged for more – anything to be near the Assassins. I listened to them recounting their missions and adventures. I drank it in, hoping that someday I may be accepted into their ranks.

As children do, I sometimes used my imagination to make believe that I was a Master Assassin. I ran around jumping and climbing on the walls and ramparts of the fortress, pretending to stalk my target. One particular day the Master caught me at my games. I remember his words well.

"You seem determined to test my patience, Boy, so now I will test you. I've watched you and see potential in you. Is it your wish to join the Brotherhood?"

I nodded. "More than anything, Master."

"Come with me, Altair Ibn La-Ahad. Your life changes today."

He took me to the Novice leader and from that day, I ate, slept, breathed and bled the Brotherhood. I was nameless no more.

I excelled at my studies and training, and it was not long before I began to rise through the ranks. When the Master informed me that I was ready to receive the Mysteries, it was the culmination of my most fervent wishes.

My training intensified – physically, mentally and spiritually. Many esoteric truths were revealed to me and I began to truly understand the philosophy of the Creed. Of course, the older I get, the more I realize that there are layers to wisdom. There are things I thought I had fully grasped, only to find I had only the most basic of understanding of them. Malik said that we can never know anything, only suspect. The wise words return to me often.

Soon I found myself a Master Assassin. I reveled in the privilege my position afforded me. The Master made no secret that I was his best. I worked very hard to improve my skill. I still do. The training never ends; perfection is always the goal.

My name was replaced with fanciful titles. I was the One, the Angel of Death; unstoppable, untouchable, and unerring. I would now add unbearable to that list. My brothers respected my skill, but avoided me for the most part. It was no great loss for me. The Creed was my companion. It did sadden me when I fell out with Malik. Our shortcomings perfectly aggravated each other's until we could not abide together for even a moment without harsh words.

More responsibility followed. I was now an Instructor, charged with helping my brothers improve their sword arms and their understanding of the finer points of assassination. I loathed having them along on missions and I made no secret of it to them. I found them little more than burdens. I justified my actions by telling myself that my cruelty would toughen them.

Then that fateful day came in the Temple of Solomon. Kadar's death weighs heavy on me still. For a long time, I blamed Malik. Blame is like regret. Ultimately, both are pointless and change nothing. We are all accountable for our own actions and as Assassins, we are accountable to the Creed.

I did not fight when Al Mualim buried the golden dagger in my flesh as the ultimate punishment for breaking the Creed. I looked him in the eye as my spirit prepared to abandon its fleshy home. I thought my life over and I wanted to face it bravely; to die as befits an Assassin. Imagine my surprise when I awakened. My death was illusion, my penitence would not be.

Being brought back down to earth was a very hard and very humiliating lesson for me. To be stripped of my rank was like having my heart ripped from me. I told myself it mattered not; that it did not change who I was. I attacked the missions the Master laid out for me, hell-bent on reclaiming what was taken from me.

What I discovered in the process of redeeming myself was the beginnings of wisdom. I finally understood that with position comes responsibility. I became less of a machine and more of a human being. Yes, the Assassin is a human being. Surprising? Indulge this monster a bit more.

My heart is not made of steel and it is blood, not ice that flows through my veins. I have loved, if not often, then at least well. With the possible exception of my horse and my weapons, I am most passionate about ideas – freedom, truth, man's search for meaning and uncovering wisdom all occupy my thoughts regularly. First and foremost, however, is the Creed. It is that which I live by, aspire to and measure myself against.

The philosophy of the Creed. Much of it is held beyond the veil and I will not write of it. The most important aspects are known to the outside world and therefore are somewhat open to discussion. Let us briefly look at the most contentious.

_Nothing is true; everything is permitted_. Our enemies twist the words and make them a perversion, failing to look beyond the words themselves. Ironic, that. The seemingly paradoxical statement is both elegant in its simplicity and devilishly complicated in its implications. It demands a level of responsibility that few are willing to hold themselves to and a constant understanding of the mutability of perception that most would find exhausting. Perception. There is that word again.

Some believe we use the Creed to justify murder; that our philosophy is a convenient construct. Which came first, the Assassin or the Creed? There is no Assassin without the Creed. Murder? No, not murder. Justice. Correction. Balance. This is our sacred task.

We do not act without extreme consideration, for we understand that it is a terrible thing to end a life. A warning is given. Some men will not be reasoned with, however. When the warning is ignored, when justice through ordinary means is impossible, the extraordinary is called for. I and my brothers are the extraordinary.

I would be a liar to claim that I do not enjoy the process to a certain degree. There is a strange connection that I feel with my target, a sense of exhilaration that comes from knowing that they will soon cease their predation and that it is I who will end it. More arrogance? I think not. Any hunter enjoys the hunt in proportion to his skill.

I deliver death to my target as painlessly as possible, which is more than many of them deserve. Most never see me until the blade is buried, severing a vital vein and the nerves that run along the spine. It is a deliberately placed strike. Suffering is not the goal, only death.

Do I feel remorse? I do feel the weight of the responsibility for taking a life. It is a difficult thing to describe. I would liken it more to empathy. I often come to know my targets more intimately than they know themselves. I am like their own conscience. They often confess as they lay dying, as if I were a priest. They seek absolution, but that is not mine to give.

As I read over the words I've written, I admit there is a coldness to them. Perhaps that is what makes me a monster in the eyes of some. The coldness does not come from brutality. It is simply the truth. I do not expect or desire understanding from those who live their lives free of such concerns and decisions.

Were the Brotherhood to cast me out… it is hard for me to even imagine. Someone close to me once asked if there was another path open to me, would I take it? I dodged the question like an enemy's blade. It is who I am, I answered. Even though it was evasive, it was true. It remains true and will so until the day I die. My loyalty to the Creed, like my resolve, is absolute.

I will leave it to you to make your own decision regarding whether I am a monster. I do not consider myself such, but like all things, I suppose, it is a matter of perception.

Altair Ibn La-Ahad

Masyaf, 1191


	2. Masyaf 1192

Today I went to my favorite spot in the Garden for a little solitude and meditation. Apparently one of my students, Omar, had the same idea, for he was seated in the exact spot I often return to.

Omar is a new Assassin with only three missions under his belt. He shows tremendous potential but lacks confidence - except when he wields a blade. For this reason I've taken him under my wing and have resolved to drive the self-doubt from him by any means necessary.

When I approached him in the Garden he jumped up so quickly I was afraid he would fall right over the edge of the cliff. He apologized for disturbing me and laughed nervously when I pointed out that surely it was I who had disturbed him. The poor boy did not know how to respond.

It is probably wicked of me, but sometimes I cannot resist presenting my students with some off-handed comment to knock them off balance. My potential wickedness aside, it does benefit an Assassin to be as nimble of mind as he is with foot and blade.

I invited him to sit and we discussed his latest mission. It had gone well, save for the unexpected arrival of a guard as the deed was done. Omar dispatched him, but not before the guard's blade had grazed his cheek, leaving an ugly gash. He will bear the scar for the rest of his life.

We fell to silence, then Omar hesitantly spoke: "It is said a Templar gave you the scar on your own cheek."

"No," I replied curtly, leaving no room for further questioning on the matter.

Omar quickly apologized, realizing he had crossed an invisible boundary. I sent him away telling him I would see him in the training ring in the morning.

My thoughts of meditation were displaced by memories as I traced the line of scar tissue with my finger.

After an assassination I crave motion and often walk for hours as I reflect on the mission and the life I've taken. So it was that I walked through the nighttime streets of Damascus, the shadows and side streets protecting me from the alert patrols.

I was preparing to take to the rooftops when I became aware that I was being followed; a pair of watchful eyes marking every step I made. I turned, heading toward a dark alley. Quickly hoisting myself up onto a beam, I waited.

When my pursuer appeared, creeping along in the darkness, I dropped behind him, throwing him against the wall. My blade was at his throat before his heart thought to skip a beat.

"You will tell me who you are or you will die," I threatened.

I can still hear his brave reply quite clearly. "I am Azzam, son of Tamir!"

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. His voice betrayed his youth. I withdrew my blade but held him against the wall. He was nothing more than a gangly boy. Even in the dim light I could see the hatred and pain that burned in his eyes. I had killed his father, after all.

My words to him were cruel. "Run home to your mother, Azzam, before her grief is doubled." I shoved him away from me, the bitter irony of the situation stirring my own memory. I knew this boy's blind rage well - had felt it after a Crusader had slain my own parents.

With such intimate understanding, why I turned my back is a mystery. This boy had tracked me, an Assassin. But still, he was an innocent and I would not raise my blade against him. I was walking away when I heard him yell. As I turned, his blade bore down on me, aiming for my neck.

Some conspiracy of fate decreed that my effort to dodge would save my life but grant me a vivid reminder of the day. The blade bit into my face as I reached for his wrist, still determined not to harm him. I swept his feet from under him and pinned him, throwing his sword away from us.

"Someday you will understand. Your father was an evil man who had to be stopped." I had planned on rendering him unconscious and leaving him. Why I was explaining myself to this boy was beyond me. I only know that I was compelled to do so, even as the blood poured from my wound.

He spat in my face. "I will avenge my father, Assassin. I know where you and the other murderers like you hide yourselves and I will not rest until you are all dead!"

Hoping that he bluffed, I questioned him further. My heart sank as he described in detail the location of the Bureau. I knew that he would do his utmost to follow through with his mad and utterly doomed plan for vengeance. At that moment, he ceased to be an innocent.

I imagined that somewhere, a mother and wife was screaming as my hidden blade slipped into his neck, quieting his rage. "Peace be upon you, Azzam," I whispered. The anger in his eyes was frozen momentarily, then faded as his soul departed. In death he looked like a boy again – a child.

The night was so quiet, I remember. I sat back on my heels, anger and sorrow twisting my gut until a sob threatened to burst forth from me.

As I write these words, I feel it anew. With time, I've come to understand the nature of the empathy I felt. I have many times imagined finding that nameless Crusader and giving vent to my own desire for revenge. Fate is a funny thing. Were it not for that Crusader, I would not be writing these words.

Occasionally, for a fleeting moment, I will think I see the boy's face in a crowd. What I could have done differently… I do not know. I wish there had been another way, but the Brotherhood must be preserved; our secrets must remain hidden. It is, at times, a heavy burden.

Masyaf

1192

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iA/N: Some pictures of Altair show the scar and some don't, so I thought the injury could have happened on one of the missions. I chose Tamir because Altair's still reeling from what happened in Solomon's Temple, not to mention being stripped of his rank. Thanks for reading!


	3. Jerusalem 1191

_Jerusalem, 1191_

_Gratitude._ The robed man in the square chastised the passing crowds with loud words and excited gestures, reminding them to always be grateful for the gifts Allah bestows and warning them that He shall surely withdraw his grace should they cease being thankful. The man's fervor shone in his eyes as they scanned, seeking a target for his lessons - lessons most of the citizens had seemed too busy to pay much attention to as they went about their business.

So it was that eventually the man's eyes found my own, as I sat on what I thought was an out of the way bench. I have been told that I have a piercing stare and I employed it, willing the man to look away and forget that he saw me. He did not, though I did notice the edges of his lips curled ever so slightly. His gaze was intense as he spoke the following strange words, seemingly to me alone: "Do not forget to count your blessings each day. Allah is kind, but time is a lion and you, my friend, are a lamb."

Our eyes remained locked a few seconds more. He smiled in earnest before turning away to seek another soul to impart his wisdom to, and I was left vaguely impressed and unsettled as I stood and vanished into the crowd.

_Time is a lion and you, my friend, are a lamb._ I have to smile at the words. A more apt metaphor for the tenuous nature of existence I have not heard.

Now I sit here beside the candle's warm glow, quill in hand, contemplating the idea of gratitude. The man would no doubt be pleased. I must admit that it is not something that in the past I have spent much time thinking about, at least not overtly.

On the basest level, I am grateful for my life as every man is. More specifically: Am I grateful for my life's work? My spirit answers immediately with a resounding _yes_, despite recent events. I am grateful for the Creed, for the enlightenment I have found within its framework. I must endeavor to remain humbled by it and not place my own ever-persistent will above it. It is no small task.

I am grateful to the Master, for taking me, a nameless boy and giving me purpose. His lessons were often hard - so hard that at times I thought the man simply delighted in cruelty. I know now the reasons behind many of them, and I am thankful for each and every one. I am beginning to understand this most recent, the hardest of all. A man broken down can either grow bitter or wiser from the ordeal. Despite some initial floundering, I choose the latter.

I have much to make amends for. I had a stark reminder of this earlier in the day when I visited the Bureau. Malik's response to my presence cut me to the quick and evoked an impulsive, childish and habitual response from me that I regret. It caused me to seek lodging elsewhere rather than risk aggravating the situation.

I am wandering from the topic. Or am I? Why should I think of Malik while contemplating gratitude? On reflection, I realize that though I have no right to or faith that it will come to pass, part of me hopes that I can somehow make things right with him. I have no idea how to even begin, though I am sure the attitude I displayed today is not a good start.

Random things for which I am grateful...

Twilight in the Garden. It has been too long since I've enjoyed the unfolding of the night from my favorite vantage point on the lower terrace.

The perfection of the hidden blade, a well-balanced throwing knife and a sure and steady hand to wield them. It should come as no surprise that I would be grateful for my weapons, for they define me as much as my missing finger. I passed a vendor who had several fine throwing knives for sale and I was momentarily tempted, given that my own have yet to be returned to me. With a mixture of regret and resolve I walked away. I will earn them, again.

Sitting atop a high observation position and spotting an eagle circling nearby. If it calls out, something stirs deep inside of me – affinity, longing, a desire to answer. Those are the times that I usually cannot resist the urge to take a deep breath and leap. There is nothing equaling that sense of exhilaration.

I suspect that some day I shall be grateful to have known love, but it is not today.

Minutes have passed since I wrote the last sentence. Just that simple thought has spoiled my concentration, so I will end this entry before it becomes something else entirely. In any case, I should review the information I have pieced together regarding my mission.

~Altair Ibn La-Ahad

* * *

_A/N This entry was written for the Visionary Assassins challenge "Thanksgiving/Gratitude." I owe the line "Time is a lion and you are a lamb" to musician Joe Henry. Thanks for reading! _


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